


Primary Relations - A Politician’s Journey rev 2-1.avi

by samyazaz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Elections, Kissing, M/M, Political Campaigns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2014 Les Misérables Holiday Exchange:</p>
<p>Enjolras is a previously-unknown politician campaigning to get onto the ballot. Grantaire is a filmmaker who's documenting their journey leading up to the primary election.</p>
<p>This is the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primary Relations - A Politician’s Journey rev 2-1.avi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sigh_no_more](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sigh_no_more/gifts).



FADE IN on: a crowded office, political posters and slogans on the wall. It seems cluttered at first glance, but further inspection reveals it's an organized chaos, a dozen people crowded around a meeting table intended to seat half that number. At the head of the table, directly opposite the camera, stands ENJOLRAS, looking like a firebrand in his trademark red coat over a tailored suit. He looks weary, one hand braced on the table and leaning his weight against it, his head bowed forward, golden hair falling like a curtain across his face.

 

_[Note from Editing: Very nice shot here, by the way. I'm impressed. -Ép]_

 

_[Note to Editing: I can't exactly take the credit. The camera loves him. Thanks, though. -R]_

 

The scene is a riot of noise. Every one of the people around the table are talking, on cell phones or to each other or to Enjolras before them. Snatches of conversation can be heard: _with your support_ , and _just five hundred more signatures_ , and _can we count on you_ , but nothing distinct until:

 

VOICEOVER: _Thirty days before the State Primary Election, Enjolras and his staff are--_

 

_[Note to Editing: Nix the voiceover. We talked about this. -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: No one likes subtitles in their movies, R. If they wanted to read they'd pick up a book. -Ép]_

 

_[Note to Editing: This is about_ his _voice, not some disembodied stranger's. Get rid of it. -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: Fine. For fuck's sake. -Ép]_

 

SUBTITLE: 30 Days to Primary

 

Enjolras sighs, lifts his head, pushes his hair back behind his ear, and looks out over the others and says: _We have a lot of work ahead of us, guys_. His voice is quiet, and everyone else is clamoring, but as soon as he speaks silence descends upon the table. They are as transfixed as the camera is, riveted by the same charisma that can move crowds, that has put this political new-comer in contention for his party's nomination even while running against seasoned veterans. His is vibrant with passion, with conviction, as he surveys his men. _But we can do it. I know we can. We can get on the ballot. And once we're on the ballot, we can win._

 

There's a pause, a breathless moment. And then the stillness is broken by COURFEYRAC, who gives a whoop and a fist pump and cries: _Fuck yeah!_

 

His enthusiasm is infectious. One by one, the others break into smiles. And Enjolras does as well, the very last. It's a small smile, a tired smile. It's a smile that knows that the next thirty days will be full of strain and exhaustion and hard work. The shot zooms out. The rest of the office becomes visible, and it becomes obvious just how small it truly is. There are a few scattered cubicles, desks piled with mountains of paperwork or precarious stacks of pamphlets and flyers waiting to be mailed out. The office itself is a little shabby, though they've done the best they can with it. The table of men and women seems small suddenly, the fact that this is a grassroots effort fought by just a handful of people is painfully obvious. The viewer gets the sense that they're weary from already having fought just to get this far, and they still have a very long way to go.

 

As the scene fades Courfeyrac's voice plays over it: _Oh, we've known each other forever, Enjolras and I. Since grammar school._

 

CUT TO: a confessional-style shot of Courfeyrac, sitting up against one wall of the office, the edge of one of Enjolras's campaign posters visible in the upper right corner of the frame. He's grinning, broad and bright, and he's relaxed in front of the camera, easy. _You should have seen him on the playground. He was a terror._

 

GRANTAIRE's quiet laughter can be heard off-camera, and then his voice: _That doesn't surprise me. Did you know even then he was destined for greatness?_

 

_[Note to Editing: Remember to cut the interview in the final editing pass. -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: It helps with context and continuity, R. -Ép]_

 

_[Note to Editing: I sound so skeptical, though. -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: Well. Aren't you? -Ép]_

 

_[Note to Editing:_ Éponine. _-R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: Christ! Fine, fine. I'll take it out later. -Ép]_

 

Courfeyrac laughs a little, ducking his head. He's the charismatic one of the group, and it shows. The camera loves him as much as it loves Enjolras, and unlike Enjolras, he loves it right back. He pushes a hand through his hair and smiles at the camera as he says: _Oh yeah. He ran for student government, you know. Sixth grade._

 

Grantaire's voice offscreen again: _How'd that work out?_

 

Courfeyrac's grin is blinding, delighted. _He got deposed._

 

The camera shakes as Grantaire laughs, harder than before.

 

_[Note to Editing: I don't need to tell you to make sure this gets edited out, do I? There's an awful lot of me in a documentary that's supposed to be about him. -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: There is, isn't there? -Ép]_

 

_[Note to Editing: What's that supposed to mean? -R]_

 

_[Note to Editing: Éponine? -R]_

 

Courfeyrac continues: _Even then, he was divisive. Always has been. But the people who love him..._ His softens, goes fond. _We'll stick by him through hell and back._

 

Grantaire: _He inspires that much loyalty?_

 

Courfeyrac's brow knits a little at the question. _No_. He leans in, hands on his knees, looking straight and intent into the camera. _He_ earns _it._

 

FADE TO: COMBEFERRE stands on a stage in front of a crowd. They're respectful, but there's a hum of energy running through them. Combeferre's just finishing up his own speech, smiling out over them all as he says: _But I know I'm not the one you're all here to see. Enjolras?_ There's a murmur and a muted cheer at his name. _The floor's all yours._

 

SUBTITLE: 25 Days to Primary

 

Enjolras enters stage right, dressed in his traditional red. The suit underneath is charcoal grey and he makes a striking figure, fire and ash. He claps Combeferre on the shoulder as they pass one another, then stands in front of the podium Combeferre has just vacated. He ducks his head, says: _Sorry, give me a moment_ and wrestles with something at the front of the podium. Abruptly, the microphone comes loose in his hand and he straightens, flashes the smile that has charmed thousands out across the crowd. _There, that's better_. He steps from behind the podium, steps around it to stand at the front of the stage and talk to the people who have come here to hear him.

 

He is energetic, charismatic. He speaks of women's rights, of minorities' rights, of change. He speaks of the difference he can make, if he's given the chance. There is a marked difference between his speech and those of other politicians -- where others stand behind their podiums and gesture with a hand, perhaps, to make a point, Enjolras is vibrant, is as alive as the flame he looks like. He paces across the stage, from one end to the other and back. He gestures with his whole body. He is lively, is animated, is passionate. By the time his speech draws to a close, the crowd is in an uproar. Enjolras finishes, breathing hard and smiling fiercely out over the crowd, and they love him. It's hard not to, once you've seen him speak.

 

CUT TO: Combeferre in the confessional interview. His smiles are less effusive than Courfeyrac's, but no less sincere. He tips his head to the side, eyes going narrow in thought before he answers the question that's been posed to him: _It's not bravado, I don't think. It sounds like it, I know. Or it can, if you hear everything with a skeptic's ear._

 

Grantaire's laughter comes from behind the camera: _Ouch. But I suppose I deserve that. Still, the type of supporter Enjolras attracts aren't the uneducated sort. They're smart, and they're politically savvy, which means they know just how hard it is to actually make any changes at all in the current political climate, much less the big ones that Enjolras has his eye on. We all know what happens to promises made on the campaign trail once the candidate is in office._

 

Combeferre's brows knit and he opens his mouth to speak, but it's Enjolras's voice that responds, coming from offscreen: _What, so we don't try?_

 

_[Note to Editing: Honestly, Éponine. No one's tuning in to see Enjolras argue with the cameraman. -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: I think you seriously underestimate the entertainment value here. -Ép]_

 

Enjolras storms on-screen. The frame cuts him off at the head and just below the waist, but his hands gesture animatedly and he's turned to face someone just behind and to the side of the camera -- Grantaire, one can presume. _Not trying isn't going to accomplish anything more, now is it? It's just going to preserve the status quo, and that's not what any of us are here for. I'm here to_ change _things, we all are. Of course it's going to be hard. Of course it's going to take time and effort and sweat and blood and tears. We all know that getting elected is just the first step, and that it's just going to get harder from here on out. None of us came into this with our eyes closed._

 

Combeferre leans forward, a hand on Enjolras's hip, pushing him ever-so-gently to the side. Enjolras goes a step to the right at his guidance, but remains half in frame, a fist clenched at his side. Combeferre tips his head up, speaking up to him: _You're kind of ruining my moment, Enjolras._

 

Enjolras says something in response, low and fierce and hard to make out. It makes a smile pull at the corners of Combeferre's mouth.

 

_You'll have your turn in front of him, I'm sure. But I was making a point here._

 

Enjolras gives a sharp sigh and a furious gesture before disappearing from the shot. Still, his voice comes from offscreen, raised, shouting: _Why the_ fuck _are you even here if that's what you think of us?_

 

The camera jolts abruptly as though struck by something -- or someone -- outside the shot. Footsteps stomp away and onscreen, Combeferre's gaze follows them before returning to look just beyond the camera. He gives a little lopsided smile and a what-are-you-going-to-do shrug. _Like I said. He's passionate._ Fade to black. 

 

SUBTITLE: 20 Days to Primary

 

We can hear the quiet murmur of conversation, muffled, polite laughter, the occasional clink of glass.

 

FADE IN on: a fundraising dinner held in a luxe room, walls swathed in silks and fittings trimmed in gold and crystal. It's a black tie event, everyone dressed in expensive gowns and tuxedos, gold and diamonds glittering from the ladies' ears and necks and wrists as they sip from flutes of champagne. Enjolras and his staff mingle amongst them. Enjolras's red is noticeably absent, represented only in the bright flash of his pocket square at his breast. It's the only hint of color amongst the men, and between that and the golden curls -- pulled back and tamed nearly to obedience for this event -- it makes it easy to track him as he moves amongst the others, stopping briefly to talk with this man here or that woman there.

 

FADE TO a different shot of the same event. Time has passed, the champagne flutes are empty or nearly so. Enjolras stands before the assembled group, speaking to them. There's no stage here, just Enjolras standing before everyone as they make space around him. The difference in his demeanor is remarkable -- he is restrained, contained. He scarcely moves as he speaks, and instead of talking about change and rights for the oppressed, he talks about funds, about money, about where their contribution dollars go and how they help, about how very much further contributions are needed, especially now, in the run up to the Primary.

 

ZOOM IN on Enjolras's face. There's a spark of his usual fire there, but it doesn't burn as bright or as fierce as we're used to. He looks subdued. When he pauses between sentences to turn and accept a glass of water from Feuilly, the mask slips. He looks exhausted.

 

As soon as he gives the water back to Feuilly and resumes his speech, his mask is firmly back in place. But the specter of that exhaustion hangs over him like a shadow now. We can see it in the pinch of his mouth, in the lines at the corners of his eyes and that frame his mouth. In the way he rubs his fingers across his brow in those moments when someone else is talking, and he's leaned in to listen to them. In the way he sighs and pulls his shoulders straight, forcing himself back into proper posture, before he speaks and draws eyes back to him.

 

INTERCUT a montage of scenes from the same event. Enjolras, speaking with the attendees. A different shot, in which he's doing the same thing. Interspersed scenes of Courfeyrac and Combeferre and the rest of his campaign staff doing the same, moving through the crowd, speaking to people individually or in small groups. A woman passes Enjolras a check and pats his cheek, and misses the frown he shoots her back when she turns away. The candles grow shorter as the montage continues, showing the passage of time. Enjolras is in a heated debate with a man, his face as red as the overcoat he usually wears, his hands balled at his sides. The man he's speaking with isn't angry. He's sneering, disdainful, and when he turns away from Enjolras in blatant dismissal, Enjolras takes a single, furious step after him before Courfeyrac catches him by the arm and catches his eye, shakes his head silently. Enjolras takes a deep breath and shakes Courfeyrac's arm off, but doesn't continue after the man. 

 

The montage continues, giving a sense of endlessness, until the viewer themselves is exhausted just watching it, and cannot help but understand and empathize with Enjolras's weariness. The crowd grows slowly thinner in the glimpses that are shown, until we end on a long, lingering shot of the event hall, empty but for Enjolras and his staff, standing in a small cluster with stooped shoulders and bent heads, surrounded by the detritus of the event, half-eaten canapés and abandoned champagne flutes.

 

CUT TO: Enjolras in a confessional shot. He's still wearing his tuxedo, though the bow tie is untied and hangs loose about his neck, and both his coat and waistcoat are unbuttoned. He sits slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging forward, silent. He pulls a hand through his hair, grunts when he finds it tied back, and yanks the tie free with a violent motion. _I don't know what you want me to say_.

 

Grantaire's voice, offscreen, quiet: _Just the truth._

 

It makes Enjolras sigh and his shoulders sag. He looks like a man who's carried the weight of the world for too long. When he lifts his head and looks into the camera, looks past it, there's no fire in his gaze, just beaten-down exhaustion. 

 

His mouth thins. His brow furrows. Finally, he speaks: _I fucking hate asking rich assholes for money._ He pushes himself to his feet with a noticeable effort and walks offscreen, leaving only the wall and its silk swathing behind him.

 

CUT TO a crowded theater. Enjolras and his opponent for their party's nomination, MONTPARNASSE, stand on stage behind twin podiums, engaging in a debate. There are television cameras on them, but this is shot from the side, as though from the aisle of the theater or from just offstage. It's a more intimate angle.

 

SUBTITLE: 15 Days to Primary

 

The debate progresses as debates do. The moderator asks her questions and Enjolras and Montparnasse are each given time to answer, and to respond to one another's answers. Enjolras is passionate again, and even manages to remain behind the podium this time, though the white-knuckled grip he has around its edge suggests that maybe he's chafing at the restriction more than he lets show. 

 

The moderator asks a question, and Montparnasse's answer makes Enjolras's head whip around. He quivers like a hound on a scent, waiting to be unleashed. When the moderator turns to him and says: _Enjolras--_ he's off before she can finish.

 

_I'm sorry_. Enjolras's voice drips with disdain. Looking toward Montparnasse turns the back of his head toward the camera, so we can't see to be sure, but he sounds as though he's sneering. _Did I walk into a Republican debate by accident?_

 

_[Note to Editing: Oh Christ, we're not keeping this, are we? -R]_

 

Montparnasse glares back at him, visible just over Enjolras's shoulder. He bristles, tries to defend his response, both of them ignoring the moderator's attempts to keep things organized and civil. As soon as he says: _socialism_ with a curl to his lip and disgust in his eyes, Enjolras is like a live wire. He curls his fingers even tighter around the podium's edge and it seems that that grip is the only thing keeping him from flying across the stage in a fury. Even so his retort is violent, furious. He dissects every weakness in Montparnasse's logic, flays him verbally, his voice rising with every word until he's shouting across the stage, red-faced and livid, and the moderator has given up on trying to control the conversation.

 

_[Note to Editing: Ép, no, he's going to hate this. -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: It's not our job to make him happy. It's our job to tell a story. Besides, he signed that waiver, he knows we make no promises about portraying him or his campaign in a positive light. -Ép]_

 

_[Note to Editing: That's not why I'm worried about this upsetting him. -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: I know, sweetie. -Ép]_

 

Courfeyrac steps out from the wings and crosses to Enjolras. He touches Enjolras's elbow just as Enjolras pries himself free of the podium and seems ready to launch himself across the stage at Montparnasse and turn the debate into a fistfight. That touch stops Enjolras so effectively he rocks back onto his heels. He turns to face Courfeyrac, and with it, the camera. He looks furious, but also distraught, and his gaze searches Courfeyrac's for something. Courfeyrac's voice can be heard, barely, above the murmur of the crowd: _I know. You've made your point. Come on._

 

Enjolras takes a breath and seems to regain some composure. He turns back, not to Montparnasse but to the moderator, just long enough to say: _We're done here_ with finality, and then he turns and stalks offstage with Courfeyrac, leaving the stage and the theater beyond it in a mild state of chaos and confusion.

 

INTERCUT a series of newspaper pages, many bearing headlines about Enjolras's outburst or the disastrous debate. Some are charts or graphs showing Enjolras's polling numbers dropping in the wake of the debate, while Montparnasse's are climbing.

 

FADE TO: Courfeyrac sits in the confessional. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, flashes a glance up at the camera and gives a grimace and a smile that both look chagrined. He says: _Look. Enjolras is a passionate man, we all know that. It's what set him on this path in the first place, and what's gotten him this far. But being passionate leaves you vulnerable. To things like this._ He gestures with a hand. _You can't control passion. Sometimes that works in your favor. Sometimes... Not so much._

 

Grantaire's voice speaks from offscreen: _It's not his passion that he lost control of, though, is it? It's his temper._

 

_[Note to Editing:_ _Éponine, no. -R]_

 

Courfeyrac's brows furrow, anger working its way into his expression. _That's just another word for--_ He breaks off, glances sideways. He shifts over to the side, and Enjolras enters the frame, standing, visible only from the shoulders to the hips, and only in profile. Enjolras clears his throat. _Can I have a word, please?_

 

Courfeyrac tips his head as he looks up at him. _With me?_

 

_With him, actually_.

 

Courfeyrac's expression turns to surprise, his brows lifted, his lips parted slightly. _Oh. Sure._ His hands twist together momentarily before he rises and edges out of the shot. His voice is still audible, though: _Whatever you like. I'll be just outside. If you need anything, just shout._

 

Enjolras sits in Courfeyrac's vacated seat, his gaze still angled up and to the side -- to Courfeyrac, one presumes. He smiles a little, faint and deprecating. _Thanks. I think there's been quite enough shouting already, though._ His gaze tracks Courfeyrac's movement until the sound of a door opening and shutting signals his departure. Then Enjolras's gaze straightens. He glances into the camera briefly, then aside, then drops his gaze down to where his fingers are twisted together in his lap. _So. I didn't come across very well last night_.

 

Grantaire clears his throat. _You've had better moments._

 

_I--_ Enjolras lets out a sharp breath and plucks at something on the knee of his trousers. _I lost my temper_. There's a moment's pause and then he glances up and cringes as he admits: _I was terrible. I wasn't prepared._

 

_But you've been preparing for weeks. I should know, I've got it all on tape._

 

Enjolras gives a breath of laughter, but doesn't look like he means it. _I was prepared for the questions. I wasn't prepared for the debate._ His gaze goes distant again as he takes an uncharacteristic moment to compose himself, or his thoughts. _It can be a bit of an echo chamber, you know. In here, and on the campaign trail. Everyone who works here does so because they believe the same things I do. Everyone who supports me does so for the same reasons. It's easy, when you're talking to people who've already been convinced to buy what you're selling. But you..._ Enjolras breaks off, running a hand over his mouth, and then up to pull through his hair.

 

_[Note to Editing: Please, can we not. -R]_

 

His gaze goes sharp, then, focused directly into the camera. If one listens closely, one can hear the sound of a small, startled breath that doesn't come from Enjolras. _You're not convinced. You challenge me._ He breaks off, laughs a little, but this time he's smiling and it sounds sincere, if still a little deprecating. _You challenge me constantly. And I've resented that, when I should have been using it._

 

There's a lengthy silence in which Enjolras continues to stare straight into the camera. His eyes are painful in their sincerity, their entreaty. Finally, there's the sound of a throat being cleared, and then Grantaire: _Look. I'm not here to be_ used _. I'm just here to make a movie_.

 

Enjolras's expression twists, frustration and impatience. _That's not what I meant. You_ know _what I mean._ He stops himself, pulls himself up straight, takes a deep breath only to let it out all at once. _I'm trying to say I'm sorry._

 

Enjolras's only response is silence.

 

_I'm trying to say thank you. I'm trying to say that you make me better, you make me stronger. You_ help _._

 

There's the sound of movement. Enjolras's gaze slides sideways, just off-camera, and then lifts. Grantaire's voice comes, strained, higher and faster than usual. _Look, you can't just say things like that and expect me to--_ Fuck _, fuck this, I'm turning this fucking thing off--_

 

Cut to black.

 

FADE IN: a college campus in the middle of the day. Enjolras and his campaign staff are sitting at folding card tables lined up along the side of the main walkway. There are signs hanging off of the tables, reading "YOUR VOICE SHOULD BE HEARD" and "EVERY VOTE COUNTS" and "REGISTER TO VOTE HERE".

 

SUBTITLE: 10 Days to Primary

 

Enjolras is sitting with the rest of them, sharing a table with BOSSUET. He's dressed casually today, his hair loose and his pants a dark denim, but it's still topped by his ever-present red coat. He smiles up at a girl standing before their table, her backpack hanging from one shoulder and a dubious expression on his face. He's saying: _We're not out here campaigning today. This is purely about getting people registered and aware. Do you know when the election is?_

 

She shrugs, makes a dismissive gesture.

 

Enjolras nods. _That's the problem. People ignore the primaries, they think they're unimportant, or less important. But that couldn't be further from the truth. Fewer people tend to vote in primaries, but that just means that your vote counts_ more _, your voice can be better heard._ He hands her a voter registration form from the stack at his elbow and smiles winningly. _Take it home, fill it out. You can bring it back to us here, or mail it in if we've left by then. I'm not here to ask you to vote for me, I'm just asking you to_ vote _._

 

She shrugs again and stuffs the form in her backpack. Enjolras's gaze follows her as she walks away. His smile fades, leaving him looking troubled.

 

VOICEOVER, Combeferre: _This doesn't have anything to do with the polls. This has been a part of our plan from the very start. Enjolras insisted on it, it's something he feels very strongly about. He means it, you know, when he says he doesn't care who they vote for, as long as they cast their ballot. If he didn't believe in democracy, he'd be in the wrong line of business. Of course we're all hoping that when the votes come in, it'll be Enjolras's name on top._

 

The film speeds up, turning into a time lapse shot, hours of Enjolras and his staff manning the tables, speaking with students, handing out forms. The shadows shift across the walkway as the sun progresses across the sky and makes its way toward the horizon.

 

Combeferre continues: _Voter turnout for primaries is abysmal. Even the states with the highest turnout still only see about half the number of voters that they do for the general election. But primaries are just as important. Primaries determine what options you have available to you come the general election, and we believe that people should be involved in every step of that process, instead of sitting back being complacent and content to let others make their choices for them._

 

Time slows down, returns to normal, as everyone starts removing their signs and breaking down their tables in the dying light of evening. Enjolras's shoulders slump, exhausted from the day's work, as he helps alongside his staff. Courfeyrac brings him a stack of voter registration forms, all of them signed and filled out. Enjolras looks at them a moment before he takes them, smiles at Courfeyrac, tired but genuine. _Well. That's something, at least._

 

FADE TO: Enjolras in the confessional seat back at the campaign office, staring just off-camera. The frame seems frozen until we see him blink, see his chest lift with a breath, but still he stares.

 

_[Note to Editing: Oh for heaven's sake. Don't we have any footage of him actually managing to look_ at _the camera, instead of past it? -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: Sure we do. -Ép]_

 

_[Note to Editing: Well? -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: This is better. -Ép]_

 

Enjolras blinks, licks his lips. Frowns and clears his throat and finally speaks: _I heard you talking with a student this afternoon._

 

A pause, and then Grantaire's voice from offscreen: _He asked what we were doing._ A slight laugh. _Wanted to know if we were making a movie, and if he could be in the background. I told him it wasn't that sort of movie._

 

_No._ Enjolras's brows knit. _That's not what I heard you telling him. You were saying everything the rest of us were -- about voter turnout, and the importance of primaries. You sounded like you'd been rehearsing with the rest of us when I know you haven't._

 

_Oh. Well._ Grantaire coughs. There's the rustle of clothing, as though he's moving, or fidgeting. _I heard you guys saying the same thing all day long, I suppose I was bound to turn into a parrot eventually._

 

Enjolras leans forward. He's still frowning, but it's a thoughtful look, not a troubled one. _You said you were impressed with what we were doing there today._

 

The sounds of movement grow more distinct. _Well? Look, I wouldn't have said anything to him at all except that the rest of you were busy, and the camera was set up for a time lapse shot anyway so it's not like I'd have been caught on the audio. And I figured better me than that he got bored waiting for one of you and walked off. Should I have just kept my mouth shut?_

 

_Why do you do it?_

 

A sharp huff, and a frustrated sound. _I just_ told _you--_

 

_No. Why do you act like you think we're all idiots and you don't believe in anything we do when you've got us right in front of you? Everything you've said to us, to_ me _, these past weeks, I'd have thought--_

 

_Oh Christ, Enjolras, I'm a documentarian. It's my_ job _to probe and ask questions. The only way to make this film is to get you guys talking, and the only way to do that is to challenge you._

 

Enjolras tips his head to the side, raises an eyebrow. _So you don't believe anything you actually say?_

 

_Well, you know. I mean most of it. I ask the questions because I'm curious, and I push because I'm just an asshole sometimes. I see flaws in logic and reasoning and I can't help but probe at them. I hear something I disagree with and I can't help but look further and try to understand why. If I weren't made this way, I probably would have gone into a different line of work._

 

Enjolras gives a _Hmph_ and sits back, leaning against the wall with his head still tipped to the side, looking thoughtful. 

 

Fade to black.

 

SUBTITLE: 5 Days to Primary

 

FADE IN on: Combeferre at his desk in the campaign office. He's surrounded by drifts of paperwork and empty or forgotten paper coffee cups with tea bag strings dangling out from beneath their lids, but the scene is dominated by the newspaper he has spread open in front of him, the frown on his face, and the headline that reads _ENJOLRAS LOSES BACKING DAYS BEFORE PRIMARY -- IS HIS CAMPAIGN OVER BEFORE IT'S EVEN BEGUN?_ Combeferre reaches for a coffee cup without looking away from the article, takes a sip, grimaces and frowns down at the cup and tosses it into the trash can beneath his desk before returning his attention to the newspaper. There are pinched lines around his mouth.

 

Offscreen, a door slams and is followed by the stomp of feet. Courfeyrac's voice can be heard, getting nearer: _That_ motherfucker _. We talked to him about this last week, he said we were_ fine _._ Courfeyrac enters the shot, bearing down upon Combeferre with a copy of the same newspaper in his hand. He stops when he notices the camera, his gaze swinging to it, and then snarls. _Oh, fucking great. Here I've been trying to keep it PG while the camera's are rolling and-- Just fuck it, it's not like it's going to matter now. Here, get a close-up of this, R._ He stalks forward, newspaper crumpled in hand, and shoves it in the camera, close enough that all that can be seen is a blur of text. _Let the whole goddamn world know that Gilbert Motier is a two-faced fucking liar._

 

CUT TO: the campaign office again, or rather still. Courfeyrac is sitting on the edge of Combeferre's desk now, slouched and dejected, the newspaper a crumple at his feet. Combeferre has swiveled his office chair about to face the camera and is explaining: _Senator Motier pulled his support of Enjolras's candidacy last night. He says it's because the debate made him rethink Enjolras's suitability for public office but--_

 

Courfeyrac straightens to interrupt: _But that's bullshit because that was almost two weeks ago. It's because of the polls. He was fine supporting Enjolras when it looked like he might win, but now it's too close to call and he doesn't want to back the wrong horse._

 

Combeferre calms Courfeyrac with a hand laid on his knee. _Unfortunately, his support was what gave us a great deal of our momentum in the first place. It_ was _too close to call. Now, without him..._ Combeferre trails off and gives a futile, frustrated gesture. _We may be done for._

 

Courfeyrac goes tense, his gaze angled across the room. He breathes: _Fuck_. Combeferre turns to follow his gaze, and abruptly deflates.

 

The camera swings to look at what they've both already seen: Enjolras standing in the doorway, his face thunderous but his eyes wounded as he looks at his friends. _Pardon me._ His voice is stiff, tight. _I didn't mean to interrupt._ He turns and disappears from the doorway, leaving Courfeyrac scrambling after, calling his name, and Combeferre following a step behind.

 

FADE TO: the confessional. Enjolras sits bowed, subdued. His hands dangle between his knees, clasped loosely together. His hair falls across his face, hiding it. He's quiet for a long, long moment. When he speaks, it's without lifting his head, and his voice is dull, lifeless. _I don't want to talk to that thing._

 

The sound of rustling is heard, and another figure appears onscreen, though just barely. An elbow is visible, a shoulder, a knee as he sits in the seat beside Enjolras's, turned to face him. Grantaire's voice is heard, quiet: _Okay. Then just talk to me._

 

Enjolras turns in profile to the camera, towards Grantaire. He remains slumped, dejected. _I'm not mad at them. I'm really not._

 

A moment of silence, and then Grantaire: _You're hurt?_

 

_No, I--_ He lets out a sharp breath. He twists his fingers together tighter. _I'm just surprised, that's all. They sound like they've given up._

 

_I don't think they have_. Enjolras glances up at him, startled. _They're as shocked as you are. They're reeling. Give them a moment to catch their balance and I bet you anything they'll come up swinging. None of you are the sort to lie down and accept defeat._

 

Enjolras starts to speak, then stops himself. He sighs, fingers twisting tighter until his knuckles are white. Grantaire's hands move where they can be seen at the edge of the screen, reaching forward to cover Enjolras's, to ease them apart. Enjolras's lips part on a breath and his fingers curl against his palms. He drops his gaze, then speaks at last: _They have a point, though. We only got this far because we had Motier's backing. It was his support that got us enough attention to even hope to have a chance. And now..._

 

_And_ now _..._ Grantaire's voice is hard, determined. His hands close around Enjolras's. _Now you're going to fight. Maybe he gave you a boost to get you started, but he didn't climb this mountain for you. You did that, all of you. You dragged yourselves up one inch at a time, and you're not going to stop now. Not when you're this close._

 

Enjolras sighs and shakes his head. _I'm not going to stop. I'm not going to concede the race, but I don't know what good it will do now. We may be fighting a losing battle._

 

_You may have been fighting a losing battle from the start. You knew that then, and it didn't do anything but make you more determined. And look how far you've come. It fueled you on then, and it's going to do the same now, I believe in that. I believe in you._

 

Enjolras's gaze flies up, his eyes gone wide, his lips parted in surprise. He stares for a moment, and then he breathes: _R..._

 

FADE TO: the campaign office. Much of the habitual clutter has been tidied up, papers piled in neat, square stacks instead of precarious mountains. Everyone's gathered together, sitting in office chairs that have been pulled in around one cubicle, or sitting on the edge of the desk, or leaning against the cubicle wall. There's a buzz of energy in the air, of excitement and nerves.

 

SUBTITLE: Election Day -- 1 Hour Until Polls Close

 

Combeferre has his phone out, an eagle eye upon it. Every few minutes he calls out updates: _Exit polls show us ahead by three percent_ and _They're calling March County_. _We took it._

 

Three _percent?_ Courfeyrac wails and buries his face in his hands. _Oh god. I need a drink. My nerves can't take it. Someone knock me out and wake me up when it's all over._

 

Behind the cubicle, Enjolras can be seen pacing, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched and tense. Every time Combeferre calls out an update he pauses in his stride, then resumes.

 

FADE TO: the same scene, later. Combeferre has abandoned his phone on his desk, is sitting slumped back in his seat, an arm over his eyes. Courfeyrac is chugging down an energy drink, his leg bouncing restlessly. Enjolras continues to pace, and to cast his friends concerned glances every time his pacing carries him past them.

 

SUBTITLE: 30 Minutes Until Polls Close

 

FADE TO: Enjolras in the confessional seat.

 

SUBTITLE: 10 Minutes Until Polls Close

 

Enjolras is agitated, his knee bouncing, his fingers drumming a frenetic rhythm against his thigh. He stares at the camera, his brows creasing. _Do I think I'm going to win? I can't know that. We're still neck and neck, both of us. But exit polls are notoriously unreliable, so there's no telling. We'll have to wait until morning for the official results._ His lips pinch at that, the corners of his mouth turning down, displeased by the necessity.

 

Grantaire's voice comes from off camera: _What are you going to do if you lose? Any contingency plans?_

 

The furrow in Enjolras's brows grows deeper. _No._ If _I lose -- which I haven't resigned myself to yet, thank you -- I'll figure out my next steps then. But I couldn't plan for failure or I'd have never made it even this far._

 

_You and your staff have been working hard this past week to overcome the loss of Senator Motier's support. Do you think your efforts to overcome that setback have been sufficient, or is it a case of too little too late?_

 

Enjolras jolts, sitting up straighter and looking the very image of insulted pride. _We've done_ everything _we could, and then some. It's in the people's hands now, but don't tell me that it's too little too late, not when we've all been working ourselves to the bone the past week. I don't think we've had a decent eight hours of sleep between the whole lot of us. It's not a question of if we're doing_ enough _. It's a question of if we're doing everything that's in our power and we are, of course we are._

 

_If your opponent wins the nomination, do you intend to voice your support as he runs against the opposing party's nominee or--_

 

_Christ!_ Enjolras shoots to his feet, his head and shoulders out of frame, his hands gesturing. _Can you just stop asking me about_ losing _for five fucking minutes? I already told you, I can't plan to fail or I'll never succeed, so maybe you could just_ support _me until the results come in, maybe you could just_ try--

 

The camera jolts, knocked askew. Grantaire pushes past it and partially into the shot. Enjolras grunts and makes a dismissive gesture. He starts to turn away from Grantaire, edging back from his approach to preserve the space between them. Grantaire ignores it. He follows after Enjolras, strides right up to him and wraps him in an embrace.

 

Enjolras is still for a moment, frozen, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air. Grantaire's arms flex as he hugs Enjolras tighter. His voice is a murmur, muffled but intelligible, if one strains to listen hard enough: _Hey. Hey. Look, I'm sorry. Breathe through it, okay? It's all right. You're going to be fine. I still believe in you._

 

The last statement makes Enjolras shiver hard within Grantaire's arms. Slowly, the awkward stiffness eases out of him. He circles his arms around Grantaire's back gingerly, as though afraid of breaking him, or being broken. He presses his face against Grantaire's shoulder. _Just forget the job. For one night, please, just forget about the documentary and be here with us. You've worked hard the past month, too. Just come be with us._

 

Grantaire is mostly off screen, but he can still be seen nodding. His arms loosen around Enjolras. A hand slides down Enjolras's arm to his hand, then slips into his. When Enjolras walks off camera, Grantaire walks with him.

 

Fade to black.

 

SUBTITLE: 12 Hours After Polls Closed

 

CLOSE UP on Enjolras: Bent forward at his desk, his face buried in his arms and his hair falling forward. His shoulders are shaking, as though with tears. Slowly, the camera pans back.

 

The audio fades in as the shot zooms out. We see glimpses of the others around him, flashes of movement. The audio grows clear enough to recognize that the sounds around Enjolras are clapping and cheering at the same time as the camera pans back enough to reveal a banner hanging over Enjolras's head, blocky letters declaring CONGRATULATIONS.

 

Someone opens a bottle of champagne and starts pouring glasses and handing them out. Courfeyrac throws both his hands in the air and whoops loudly, a picture of joy. Others come up to congratulate Enjolras or to clap him on the back. Finally Enjolras lifts his head and we can see that he's laughing, shaking with it. He's beaming, his face as bright with happiness as it's ever been with passion or ferocity. He turns to his friends and exchanges a few quiet words with them, accepts a glass of champagne when it's pressed into his hand and drinks half of it down in one gulp, which makes the others around him hoot and joke.

 

When the glass has been drained, he sets it down on the desk and gets to his feet. The others quiet somewhat and look to him as though expecting a victory speech, but Enjolras comes out from behind the desk and comes toward the camera, comes close enough that his shoulder all but blocks the shot. His voice can be heard, wheedling: _Come on, come out with us. You deserve to celebrate, too._

 

And Grantaire's, in response: _I can't, but thank you-- I've got a job to do-- Enjolras--_

 

Enjolras will not be denied. He pulls Grantaire out, cajoling him, dragging him when he must, out amongst the rest of the celebrants and in full view. Grantaire runs a hand over his face and glances back towards the camera as though self-conscious, or perhaps just aware of the job he's meant to be doing. Then he gives in: his hand drops, he turns to face Enjolras, and a grin breaks out across his face. He says: _You did it._

 

_We did it,_ Enjolras answers, smiling softly. He's moving in closer to Grantaire by slow degrees, a hand on the small of his back, a shuffling step forward, until they're chest-to-chest and staring at one another, the revelry around them apparently forgotten.

 

Enjolras cups his hands beneath Grantaire's jaw and leans in slowly. There's a hesitance to his expression, a wariness. Grantaire's eyes go wide as though with delayed understanding and he shifts his weight forward, throws his arms around Enjolras's neck, and kisses him.

 

Enjolras makes a sound that can be heard even over the noise of the celebrating. He kisses Grantaire back, then wraps his arms around Grantaire's back and pulls him in tight.

 

The revelry continues around them, loud and boisterous, but they're the still point at its center, holding on to each other, and still kissing.

 

_[Note to Editing: Wow. Could you have made that a little sappier? -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: Is that an official request? Because I really could. Do you remember how you ended up sitting in his lap, wrapped around him like an octopus for the rest of the party? I could include a shot of that in the cut, if you're looking for_ truly _sappy. -Ép]_

 

_[Note to Editing: Oh god, let's not. -R]_

 

FADE TO: Enjolras sitting in the confessional. He's more comfortable than we've seen him here before. His stance is easy, open. He leans forward, his gaze fixed just beyond the camera, and a brilliant grin breaks across his face. He looks happy, vibrant with it, and it's a stark contrast to the man that we've seen so far. He's saying: _We'll take a day to celebrate. We've earned that much, I think. But then it's back to work. We've got a long path ahead of us still._

 

Grantaire's easy laughter is heard offscreen. _A politician's work is never done?_

 

_Something like that_. Something shifts in his expression. He leans back against the wall behind him, his gaze still locked offscreen. _We made it over one hurdle, but there's more ahead of us, each one bigger than the last. Winning the primary is great, but all it means is that now we have to fight even harder to win the general election._

 

_But you're up for the challenge?_

 

A flash of a smile. _I'm always up for a challenge._ Enjolras shifts, leans forward again, intent. _Speaking of which. It's going to be a long, hard road we have to travel. There's bound to be some excitement along the way. I bet it'll make a good story._

 

More laughter. _Are you trying to convince me to document the rest of your trip down the campaign trail?_

 

Enjolras's smile deepens until wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes. _Maybe_.

 

_Well. It just so happens that I've already got plans for my next film, and I'm quite set on it._

 

Some of the joy fades from Enjolras's expression. It leaves him looking wary and uncertain. _Yeah?_

 

_Yeah. Turns out some schmuck from Nowhere, USA who nobody's ever heard of just won a major party's nomination. Apparently he practically threw himself at a guy during the lead-up to the primary. I'm betting he'll throw a punch next time. That's quality material right there. I couldn't possibly miss it._

 

Enjolras relaxes, his expression easing. A smile hovers about his mouth again. _That does sound interesting. There isn't anything I could do to change your mind?_

 

Grantaire is blithe, disingenuous: _Not a thing, sorry. That poor guy's going to have me plastered to his side for the next several months and there's nothing anyone could do to pry me away._

 

Heat leaps in Enjolras's gaze. He rises up from his seat and starts toward the camera. _Come here. R, come here. You can't just say something like that--_ He brushes past the camera. All that's left in the shot is the bare office wall.

 

Offscreen, R's laughter can be heard in between his protests: _No, no-- Sit back down, come on, you're totally ruining this interview-- I am a serious professional filmmaker and you can't just--_

 

His words cut off with a shriek of brilliant laughter.

 

_[Note to Editing: Éponine, you do realize that we were making a political documentary here, right, not some sappy romcom? -R]_

 

_[Note from Editing: Oh_ were _we? My mistake. -Ép]_

 

_[Note to Editing: You're going to fix this in the final edit, right? -R]_

 

_[Note to Editing: Éponine? Ép, I'm your boss technically, you can't just_ ignore _me. -R]_

 

Roll credits.


End file.
